"Unlash the tow," Bill said, quickly, to Osmond, "an' start a fire."
With the help of Billy, Osmond took a pelt from the pack, and spread it on the ice.
"They's no wood," he said, stupidly.
"Take the cross-bar o' the tow line, dunderhead!" cried Billy. "Here! Leave me do it."
While Billy released the slender bar of wood from the end of the line, stuck it in the blubber and prepared to set fire to it, Bill was dealing with Archie's drowsiness. He shook the lad with all his strength, slapped him, shook him again, ran him hither and thither, and, at last, roused him to a sense of peril. The boy fought desperately to restore his circulation.
"'Tis ready t' light," Billy said to Bill.
"Leave me do it," Bill answered. "Keep movin', b'y," he cautioned Archie. "Don't you give up."
Give up? Not he! And Archie said so—mumbled it scornfully to Bill, and repeated it again and again to himself, until he was sick of the monotony of the words, but could not stop repeating them.
Neither Osmond nor Billy had matches, but Bill had a box in his waistcoat pocket. He shielded the contents from the wind and snow while he took one match out. Then he closed the box and handed it to Osmond to hold. It was well that he did not return it to his own pocket.
Archie was stumbling back and forth over the twenty yards of sheltered space. He had a great, shadowy realization of two duties: he must keep in motion, and he must keep out of the wind. All else had passed from his consciousness. At every turn, however, he unwittingly ventured further past the end of the hummock.